Let's play the Love Game
by Shy Spirit Kitty
Summary: It's Christmas at the Holmes's. John throws a party and everyone is forced into playing 'Kiss or Tell', quite suddenly he and Sherlock are the only two left playing. Warning- M/M, a OOC. Main pairing- John/Sherlock A bit of Lestrade/Mycroft


I do not own Sherlock, the BBC do. Sherlock Holmes was written by Arthur Conan Doyle and the characters belong to him. I make no money from writing this.

Warning: A bit OOC, M/M

Pairings- Main- Sherlock/John Side- Lestrade/Mycroft

* * *

John felt bad, he really did.

It was a silly game. Intended for laughs. Lestrade brought the alcohol, a crate of beer tucked under one arm and a bottle of wine in the other. It was Christmas, Christmas at the Holmes's home would you believe. And as much fun as it was to watch Sherlock and Mycroft bite at each other over weight and sexuality, it didn't bring out the Christmas cheer much in anyone. It was all well and good that Christmas lights were put up and decorations floated carelessly down from the walls but after a while it made the atmosphere in the house weak and heavy hearted. After a few hours of sitting around hearing nothing but bickering or 'when we were young' John quickly realized that he couldn't take it any more. He waited until Mrs Holmes was escorted to bed before dialling Lestrade and Harry.

Mrs Holmes was a cheerful old woman, but despite her cheerful mood it quickly came to light that she had dementia. Never the less, her two sons loved her dearly and frequently expressed this with a simple warm smile or a peak on an old whiskered cheek. Sherlock had looked so pleased when Mrs Holmes had declared that he and John should hurry up and marry, John didn't have the heart to protest especially after an hour or so later she was looking at him baffled and confused again.

It was nearing midnight when Mycroft and Sherlock followed their mother up the steps, each holding one hand and her legs struggled to pull themselves over one another. John stood at the foot of the stairs watching the weak woman's back before sighing in relief and dialling Lestrade's number. As normal the call took a while to be connected, and by the time Lestrade answered him Mycroft had joined him at the bottom of the stairs looking somewhat confused.

"Hello, Inspector Lestrade speaking." John grinned at Lestrade's formal tone.

"Lestrade, you busy?"

* * *

In Mrs Holmes's room, Sherlock and Mycroft had just finished tucking their mother into bed, each had bent down to kiss her on the forehead and cheek before whispering a goodnight. Before moving, she looked up and met Sherlock's gaze.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock watched his mother from where he sat, on the edge of her bed. The ceiling mirrors fogged with dust, but not enough to mask out his long dark body.

She patted the quilt beside her, and he automatically nudged his body up to where her hand had been placed. Mycroft lingered for a moment, before bidding his mother goodnight and leaving the room, he left the door ajar and a string of light pooled across the bed; allowing Sherlock to see his mother.

She smiled reassuringly at her youngest son and patted his shoulder.

"Don't worry you're not in trouble young man." She chuckled and he smiled at her weakly. There was a moment of silence, a minute with her just looking at him smiling knowingly.

"What's this about then Mother?" He said slightly nervous. But he knew that she knew, his power of deductions didn't all come from just observing.

Her smile impossibly got wider as his eyes shimmered.

"My Sherlock. My baby. In love." And her hand wiped away the tear that rolled down his pale cheek.

* * *

They were playing 'Kiss or Tell'. The rules were that you got 2 tells and 3 types of kisses. Kiss one was a peak, kiss two was mouth to mouth and kiss three was make-out. If you refused to kiss the person or tell your secret you would lose.

It had taken fifty minutes for the game to start. A bottle in the hand of Harry Watson and a twist in her grip sent the bottle swirling around for a moment, before landing on Mycroft Holmes.

"Kiss or tell mate." Harry grinned. The stern look on Mycroft's face clearly indicated that he'd thought carefully about his choice.

"Tell." He said cocking his head to the side.

"Have you ever kissed a guy?" Sherlock smirked from where he sat, and Mycroft's eye's narrowed bitterly.

"Yes-" He noticed that Harry was looking at him, waiting. "-I was 15, his name was Evan. Older lad, called himself 'King of the Swing'. Turned out, King was his last name, and he did swing, both ways." Mycroft spoke before smirking at the shocked look on John's face. Clearing his throat he pinched his fingers together and gave the bottle a feeble spin where it landed on Lestrade.

"Kiss one." He said without hesitation. Mycroft eye's flickered with an untold emotion before he nodded towards Sherlock. Lestrade leaned forward as did Sherlock, and their lips brushed across another's briefly. Lestrade didn't even look at Sherlock before he spun the bottle around roughly. It landed on Mycroft again.

"Kiss or tell?" He asked, blushing furiously as Mycroft eyed him.

"Kiss Three." He mumbled before leaning forward and catching hold of Lestrade's lips, ravishing them hungrily. John and Harry watched wide eyed as Mycroft and Lestrade made out in front of them for the space of a minute. Sherlock simply looked bored, every now looking down at the silver rolex Mycroft had given him as a present. As the two pulled apart, breathless, Mycroft smirked deviously before peaking Lestrade's lips quickly and then settling down again.

"Shall we continue?" He asked, spinning the bottle and again it landed on Lestrade.

"Kiss three." He said, reaching for Mycroft.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Dull."

* * *

It was round 5. Harry and Mycroft had been knocked out after having been faced with kissing their siblings, and although Mycroft wasn't one to give up, he was more hoping to finish the game sooner so he could find some mistletoe or a kissing gate, some lame ass excuse to get another kiss from Lestrade. Sherlock said something under his breath before deciding to give his brother his christmas present.

"Are you craving my brother right now?" Sherlock asked. Lestrade's eyes widened, he stole a look at Mycroft who was looking at him intensely, and then nodded. Instantly Mycroft leapt to his feet and grabbed hold of Lestrade dragging him despite the protests, fuck excuses.

Finally.

Harry had long since fallen asleep, slouched over the couch like a outstretched cat. It was just John and Sherlock, staring at each other with challenging eyes.

"Kiss or Tell John?" Sherlock asked.

"Tell." Sherlock didn't even have to think about it.  
"Are you in love with Sarah?" John didn't even have to think about it.

"No." He said, and there was a gleam in Sherlock's eye.

"Are you in love with anyone?" The game somewhat forgotten.

"Yes." John said, the alcohol helped a lot with confessions.

"Are you in love with somebody in this room?" Sherlock asked, John hesitated and then nodded. Sherlock's expression remained blank.

"Are you in love with me?"

There was silence. Followed by the crackling of the couch as Harry Watson turned over and mumbled something inexplicitly. John and Sherlock stared at each other, both lost in the sound of the burning fire, and the influence of Alcohol.

"Sherlock..." John whispered roughly and the other man lifted his head up and took a deep breath.

"John. Are you in love with me?" Sherlock asked again. And his head fell down to meet John's gaze, lit like amber, filled with nothing but hope.

John closed his eyes tightly.

"I think we should stop playing Sherlock." He said helplessly.

Sherlock cocked his head.

"But John, 'this' game was over quite sometime ago." Sherlock said and his hand swept between himself and John.

John let his shoulders sink.

"Don't." He breathed.

"The game called 'Friendship'." Sherlock mumbled.

John knocked over the bottle and glared at Sherlock.

"You don't know anything Sherlock! You don't have the right! Ever since- ever since I met you I've been swept up in this confusion, what the fuck am I to you? A experiment? A pet? A slave! Dammit it Sherlock, Dammit it to hell!" He kicked the bottle roughly and it hit the wall before shattering. There was silence between them, the snoring of his sister to keep him chained to the ground; the heat of the air to keep him awake and the fluttering of his stomach to keep him alive. Sherlock mumbled something.

"-ve you." John heard. He squinted his eyes at the younger man who had his legs against his chin.

"What?" John asked. Sherlock looked at him abruptly.

"I love you." Sherlock said, and he jumped from his chair and began to move towards John, prowl him.

John stumbled back, shocked. Sherlock had his arms behind his back and eyes were mere slits (1).

"I've love the way you eat with small chews timed differently depending on your pace. I love the way your ears move whenever something shocks you or you begin thinking. I love your silly jumpers and tints of greys in your hair, and the smell of you after a shower. But I also love the way you smell when you sweat, the rush we both share as we run side by side. I love your comments, your cluelessness, your wit, your humor, your scent, your eyes, your touch. But most of all my dear Doctor John Watson-" Sherlock now pinned John against the wall, eye's searching deeply for some sort of lie, John's eyes flickered to Sherlock's lips.

"I love who you are."

And the feeling of actually fitting with Sherlock's lips connected with something in his mind. John Watson had never belonged, not in his family, with his girlfriends, with the army or with his job. But here with Sherlock, he belonged.

John let go as Sherlock slid his tongue into his mouth.

He didn't protest when Sherlock slide their shirts off. He didn't protest when Sherlock touched his chest, he didn't even protest when Sherlock made love to him, made him scream words that he didn't think he'd ever say.

If there's one thing for certain, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes loved each other. And before, everything else had been the shadow of a friendship, the entity filled with something much more. Sherlock loved the chase, but he loved that John would have to ultimately 'chase him'. Everyday John and Sherlock played a new game, with different rules and players. But the game that never changes. That's a love game.

* * *

1: Episode 3, when Sherlock is dressed as a security guard, he kinda prowls and I shudder.

MOP! That's really all I got to say.


End file.
